Bendy On Your Back
by Whispatchet
Summary: The old animator had finally returned to the studio. The plan could finally be put into motion. (That weird code error is fixed!)


Moving through the upper levels was a fairly innocuous endeavour, even for the animator he had lured into the ruined animation studio. Granted, he wasn't expecting the man to look so… weary, when he came through that door. But, it was still the man he remembered; a resolute, almost unshakable individual with a dry wit worthy of any demon. It was almost as much fun seeing if he could push him to freak out, as it was knowing that he was playing right into his hands.

The tiny look of fright on the animator's face when the demon popped up from behind the boards blocking the way to the Ink Machine was sweeter than all the screams of torment from the others put together.

The trap he'd set up had worked perfectly, too. Not that the animator would be able to escape through the front door anyway, he'd seen to that, just in case. But, as he ran through the studio for the door, ink seeping up from the ground and the whole studio trembling with the heaving of the Ink Machine coming back to life… the floorboards gave way.

Two stories was a long way to plummet without hurting yourself, but the 'tender' care of humans was something he had practiced over the years. A carefully placed swell of gelled ink at his landing place cushioned his fall enough so that he would be winded and shaken, rather than having two broken legs and possibly death as the reward.

He didn't have a problem with death, but this old man still had his purpose to serve.

He couldn't help but drip down through the ceiling, keeping a close eye on the man as he weakly pulled himself through the next few rooms. The animator picked up a fire axe off the wall, and clung to it, like it was a charm to ward against the ink around him. Ah, delicious, delightful fear.

The old man was moving slowly through the lower levels, a combination of unease and fatigue stopping him from just sprinting ahead. It was almost aggravatingly slow. But eventually, with the path behind him being blocked by deep pools of ink that were seeping in behind him, and wooden boards falling from the ceiling to block the way, he made it to a new room.

As soon as he opened the door, the human's face went pale and he started to shake. It didn't seem like fear, as such.. The expression on his face wasn't right. It was almost like he was seeing something that wasn't there… like the magic that had been placed over the room was overloading his brain.

He stumbled forwards and then, then the animator dropped his axe and collapsed in a heap.

The demon crawled out of the darkness to peer at the human. Ink stained and tired, he looked almost nothing like he remembered. Was it not all sunshine and roses out there, after all? Hah!

Oh how easy it would be to end him right here and now. All it would take would be one little slit in the throat…

But then all this work would be for nothing. He needed him alive.

He reached out an inky hand, and regarded his mangled glove. He stretched his fingers, and with a little effort, created the nib of a pen from his fingertip. He reached his dripping hand over, and deftly drew a mark on the human's back… a warning to the other beings in the studio….

This human was _his._

The man slept on the floor for an hour or so before waking, clutching his head as though he had been struck. He talked to himself to regain his resolve, and picked up the axe again as another source of comfort before pressing on through the studio.

He looked even more tired than before. Was this place getting to him?

The whole musical department had been converted to a shrine in his honour. Occult markings adorned the walls, and offerings surrounded by candles had been made here and there… mostly bowls of Bacon Soup, some of which had started to grow mushrooms from their goopy, dusty contents.

It surprised him that his human was still willing to hack open an opened can of the stuff and gulp it down. It certainly wasn't the… most satisfying food to eat, even in it's prime, but, eating the 30 year old canned pork sludge seemed to make him feel better, somehow.

As the animator crept through the music department, trying to clear an ink flood that was blocking the exit, the demon's eyes picked out some sleeping Searchers in the splattered halls. Not the brightest of creatures, but fit for their purpose. He was a little concerned that they would not be clever enough to feel his mark on his human's back and try and do him in.

Ah, yes. As he thought. The renewed power to the section woke the Searchers, and they sprang at him as he tried to move through the room. The first one splattered against the animator's chest before he was able to react, but the second received a hearty swipe from the fire axe, causing it to fall to pieces. The old man gave a look of surprise at that, as though he wasn't expecting that to work, and then proceeded to have at the others with gusto.

It was quite encouraging. Perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about his human quite so much after all.

Or at least, not when it came to the Searchers.

The animator had already caught sight of this level's _other_ resident a few times. He'd not stuck around to find out what the lanky thing had in mind for him, instead scurrying off to pump out the ink blocking the way out, with a mind to escape.

The music director thought that he was caught in some sort of punishment. Really, he should be flattered that he was left alive at all, given what fate had befallen so many others. But there he was, agonising in his dripping, inky form, somehow thinking that he could be redeemed. That he would be graced by a _saviour_. What a delightfully misguided concept.

Unfortunately, when one was as misguided as this corrupted mess of ink and tiny fragments of a human mind, you tended to do things that were… counterintuitive.

Such as, _ignore the warning_.

It wasn't the first time that sacrifices had been made. One of the band had been drowned in ink as a means of appeasing him, some time ago. It had been amusing, at first, that they thought they knew what would please him. That they could appeal to him, and he would show mercy to them.

It had, clearly, not worked out for them, but here the musical director was, dragging the old animator across the floor to another room, where he proceeded to tie his hands, and then bind him to a chair. His human seemed to recover from the blow to the head fairly well, but it still left the demon seething.

How _DARE HE._

There was no way he had missed the mark on the old man's back. The black ink stood out from his white shirt glaringly. Could he not sense the magic in it?! This was treachery that would not go unpunished… and the music director had been allowed to scurry around his warren unchecked for much too long.

The dripping, blithering fool ranted at his human for a while, speaking about songs and sacrifice. About how he desired release from his inky form; how he desired the demon's notice.

There were certainly better things than to have caught his eye.

As the music director plodded off to the next room with wet, squelchy footsteps, the demon swept into a vantage point nearby... to give the corrupted man his final wish.

He frowned as he heard the song the music director sang for him. It had been one of the oldest of them… the first one written for…. Ugh. Dredging up old memories now? He wasn't in the mood.

When the song ended, the tall, dripping creature tried to summon his 'lord'. Crying for him to come closer to claim the offering so carefully made. Begging for freedom.

He rose out of the shadows and loomed over the wretched remnants of a man that had dared to touch what was his. The music director yelped as the demon approached, and his grin parted into gnashing teeth, his hands forming into sharp claws.

Oh, he begged, claimed to be devout. Pleaded for his miserable life. Fool. In this place, you could have either death, or ink.

But for this poor excuse of what was left of Sammy Lawrence, as the demon's jaws crushed his torso he got both death, and the release he so craved.

Panting hard, he glared at the puddle that had oozed out from between his teeth. A gross, gluggy tasting mess that was more like half dried paint than ink. What a foul creature he had been, inside and out.

Suddenly there was a cry from the other room, followed by the groans of Searchers, and the splattering of ink.

Searchers! With his human's hands bound, they were much more of a threat than before… especially without his weapon nearby….! He made for the other room in a hurry, but paused when a new sound touched the air: a strangled gurgle… and a thud.

The thud of a body hitting the floor.

The demon crept into the room where the 'sacrifice' had been prepared. And, just like he feared… the old man was laying on the floor, hands still bound, face splattered with ink, a black dribble oozing out between his lips.

No…. _no_! He couldn't die here, like this! He was the only one that could… He was the only one…!

He growled, and cursed the human's body where it lay on the floor, rage and frustration pouring out of every snarled word, and in thin black tears that trailed down his grinning white face.

After everything they had suffered. After everything he had done… that he _hadn't_ done… after showing his true colours as a snivelling, lying traitor. Betrayer. _Sellout!_ And now to die at the hands of Searchers? What right did he had to die now? It wasn't meant to happen like this! He was meant to suffer! He was meant to grieve! Meant to fall to HIS hand and no other!

 _How could you betray them again, Henry?!_

He pulled a leg back and kicked the animator's body in rage, even though it was unlikely to make him feel any better. But, the body on the floor let out a gurgled gasp in response, and he promptly started to cough. He hacked up great sticky globs of ink… from the Searcher that had forced its way down his throat.

The demon let out an undignified squeak of surprise, and promptly melted into a puddle on the floor. From there, he watched in wonder as the old animator drew in huge, desperate gasps for air, still coughing up claggy ink from his lungs. He looked pale and sick, but…. He was pulling himself to his knees.

He was breathing.

He was alive.

They could continue.


End file.
